maybe i need you
by Exceeds Expectations
Summary: Maybe I didn't even know I was here 'til I saw you holding me. /Inspired by Andrea Gibson's poem of the same name. For Izzie. Complete.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **For Cheeky Slytherin Lass' Character Drabble Collection Competition with a Twist where the twist is that every prompt starts with your character's initials. My character is Sirius Black, therefore there will be five S drabbles and five B drabbles. Each drabble will be 500 words or less._  
_

This entire collection is inspired by Andrea Gibson's poem Maybe I Need You. It is one of the most beautiful things I have ever heard (as most of her poems are) and I strongly recommend that you watch her perform on YouTube. She's amazing.

Each section will have a quote from somewhere in the poem, though they may not be in order.

And, finally, I dedicate this whole fic to the wonderful Izzie, aka OnTheSideOfTheAngels, because I love her and she loves RemusSirius _almost_ as much as I do. (But only _almost_.)

* * *

_1. safe_

**Love isn't always magic.  
Sometimes it's just melting,  
or it's black and blue  
where it hurts the most...**

* * *

Azkaban is cold. It is dark. It is hollow and empty and Sirius hates it with every fibre of his being, but he is trapped here.

He is imprisoned here.

It's been two days and already he is he cracking, breaking into tiny pieces of _whywhywhy_ and _James_ and _Remus_ but never _Peter_, no, no, never him. He huddles up in the corner of his dank cell and he sings the names quietly to himself. _Remus, Remus, Remus_ gets caught on a loop and Sirius is so, so sorry for what he has done. And for what he hasn't done. And for what he should have done but didn't because he was too scared, too proud, too _Sirius_.

He is sorry for being a mass of contradictions and never being consistent enough to tell Remus that he is sorry, he's bloody sorry.

Because here in Azkaban, when he is safe in the knowledge that Remus is not, was not, will never be, a traitor...Sirius is sorry more than anything.

He remembers schoolboy kisses and quick caresses and then falling apart because he was too blind to see the rat was a rat, and Remus?

Remus was a friend. Remus was a protector.

(Remus was a_ lover_.)

Sirius shivers.

Azkaban is cold. It is dank and it is empty but Sirius is thankful he is here because he knows that if Remus ever saw him again, he would kill him. And Sirius wouldn't blame him.

So, here, Sirius is trapped.

But, here, Sirius is safe.

And, mostly, here, Sirius is sorry.

"_Remus_..."


	2. Chapter 2

__**A/N: **Can you believe it? I'm actually ahead on these. I swear, I can't stop writing these drabbles. This collection might get updated _regularly. _Woah.

* * *

_2. sulking_

**Last night I saw your ghost  
pedalling a bicycle with a basket  
towards a moon as full as my heavy head...**

* * *

Tonight, Sirius sulks.

He stares at the empty square window at the top of his cell that is too high for him to reach but too low for him to see the bright moon. But he knows it is full. He can see the pale light that spills across the cell's floor, he can see the stars twinkle, he can sense the shift in the air.

Because, tonight, Sirius is Padfoot.

And, tonight, Padfoot is pining the loss of the wolf, wondering where his pack has gone, sniffing around the cold stone walls for a trace of warmth or familiarity.

He finds none.

So, instead, he curls up in the darkest corner so that the light does not hurt his eyes. He wants to howl to the wolf, but he knows somehow that the wolf is not near. He knows that he must be silent. So Padfoot sulks.

But the moon is full. This is a fact that escapes neither the dog nor the man inside him. The wolf will be alone, snapping his sharp teeth at his own limbs, tearing at his own flesh, and Padfoot will not be there to stop him. Padfoot will not be there to save him.

Padfoot sniffles slightly and covers his snout with his paws. He is so very alone.

He misses the wolf. He mourns the pack. He resents the moon.

Tonight, Padfoot should be running free under that pearly glow, with the wolf in front and the stag nearby and the rat, the rat, the _rat_...

Padfoot whines.

Perhaps it is better to sleep tonight.

(The wind is the only thing he hears howl for the longest time.)


	3. Chapter 3

_****_**A/N: **I feel so on top of things with this collection. If only I was as on top of things in real life... Maybe it's because Izzie is so awesome she inspires me to torture Sirius. Who knows?

* * *

_3. September  
_

**Two years ago I said, "I never want to write our break up poem."**

* * *

It is the 1st of September 1982, and Sirius is crying.

It is broad daylight - as bright as it gets in the pit of Azkaban - and Sirius is lying flat on the floor, arms spread, legs straight, and remembering this very day eleven years ago. He was younger and braver and more whole, wearing Black pride in his smiles but Gryffindor pride in his walk and he was confused and incomplete and then _Remus_happened along.

He sat down with Sirius. He brought a book, as Remus is wont to do. He told him that he was okay. He wasn't the very first Black to end up in a House that wasn't Slytherin, but he was the first in Gryffindor. Sirius was proud of this fact. He beamed and said _thank you_and hugged the slight, little boy with the scars on his neck and the apprehension in his eyes.

On the same day, just two years ago, Sirius woke in Remus' bed. He wrapped his sleep-heavy arms around Remus and let the rise and fall of Remus' chest become the rhythm of his own lungs, until they were breathing in sync. Remus would never know, but those were the moments in which Sirius felt closest to him.

Remus had mumbled something about Hogwarts and trains and silly little boys. Sirius had kissed him good morning and asked if he'd change anything at all.

"_Yes_," Remus had said.

Just _yes_.

Sirius understands that _yes_now more than ever.

It is September 1st.

Sirius lies on the ground, his eyes following the curves in the stone of the ceiling, his skin cold and numb. He thinks of Hogwarts. Of before.

He thinks of Remus.

He thinks of James. He thinks of Lily. He even thinks of _Snape_. He thinks of riding that scarlet train to the first real home he has ever known. He thinks about gorging himself on wonderful food and falling asleep full-tummied and smiling. He thinks of Dumbledore, of McGonagall, of Slughorn.

But mostly he thinks of Remus.

He thinks of Remus, and of _yes_, and he lies there and cries.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** It breaks my heart to write these drabbles, and yet I enjoy writing them so very much. I'm clearly a psycho. Please R&R!

* * *

_4. shine_

**Now every time I hear the word **_**love**_** I think going...going...  
The first week you were gone  
I kept seeing your hand wave goodbye,  
like a windshield wiper in a flooding car  
in the last real moment I believed the hurricane would let me out alive...**

* * *

Sometimes, when he first wakes, Sirius forgets. It is in the early hours of the morning, or perhaps the late hours of the day, for time is not important when you are just waiting, waiting, waiting.

Waiting for nothing.

(Waiting for death.)

He stirs. The air is cold. He can hear the waves crashing outside, the rain battering down on the roof, the wind whistling through the cracks in old stone. He can see, but only barely. He is confused.

He forgets what has happened, if only very, very briefly.

He sees a glint through half-opened, bleary eyes and he thinks perhaps it is the shine from Remus' watch as he turns a page, or the glint of James' glasses in the sunlight.

It is neither.

It is a rusty, old door opening somewhere in the distance, a sliver of light escaping and then dying off with a slam. That slam is what brings Sirius back to right now, where he realises that there is no Prongs, no Moony, and there are no Marauders and he is alone.

He doesn't move for the longest time after that flash of light, so like a glimmer of false hope in the distance.

Instead, he stares straight ahead and thinks what he would do if Remus was in front of him, turning the page of his _Charms Quarterly_and sipping coffee from Sirius' favourite mug. He thinks he'd sing. He thinks he'd dance about and scream and shout and hug Remus so, so tight. He would take him by the hand and run all the way to Prongs' house and he would pick up baby Harry and tell him a tale of a terrible future that isn't really true.

The door reopens, the shine so bright it blinds Sirius for just a moment.

But it is enough.

The light bounces off the walls, lighting up mossy stonework and cracked tiles and Sirius remembers. All illusions are shattered. He cannot even pretend anymore, not right now.

He hugs his arms tighter around himself and closes his eyes.

Maybe, if he gets back to sleep, he can forget once more.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N:** Laptop problems; I'm having them. I will do my best to update as frequently as possible though.

Also, we're halfway through the collection and this K has been upped to a T. I feel that that, coupled with the prompt, is sufficient enough warning for _scenes of a sexual nature_ coming up. But very, very mild. Ridiculously so. Promise.

* * *

_5. shameless_

**Yesterday, I carved your name into the surface of an ice cube  
then held it against my heart 'til it melted into my aching pores...**

* * *

He is nothing.

Sirius has realised this.

He is nothing and he is no one but a man with a rusty laugh and creaking lips that don't smile quite like they used to, a man with one life - just _one_ life - and it is in tatters and ruins and burnt at the edges, and Sirius, he is nothing at all.

So really, he has nothing to be ashamed of when he is feeling lonely and he remembers Remus' naked body, like pale silk with scars like creases, or Remus' moans, like desperate need and burning lust, or Remus' kiss, like a confession of love, of their utter, utter perfection together. He has no reason to blush as he lets his hands caress the edges of his own body, as he fingers the edges of his underwear and breathes in sharp, panting breaths. He has no reason to grimace in shame as his hand moves, as his teeth burrow into his lip, as his breathing quickens, as _Remus_ spills from his lips just as Sirius spills himself.

No, Sirius is nothing.

_Nothing, nothing, nothing._

And yet, as hard as he tries, Sirius Black is not shameless.

He imagines what Remus would think if he could see him now. Sirius can see the disgust in his eyes, clear as day. He can sense the revulsion. He can almost smell the hatred that would roll off Remus is dark, mistrustful waves.

And Sirius is ashamed.

He closes his eyes, as if it will hide him from his own sin.

It doesn't.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N:** Laptop has given up. RIP, old friend. I will miss you dearly. Am posting this from a borrowed laptop. What is my life? Sadness all round, fellow WolfStarians, sadness all round.

This one is a bit all over the place. Let's say it's Sirius going a little bit mad, okay? Okay.

* * *

_6. blessed  
_

**Love isn't always magic,  
but if I offered my life to the magician,  
if I told her to cut me in half  
so tonight I could come to you whole  
and ask for you back,  
would you listen?**

* * *

It is Christmas Eve. Sirius knows this because Fudge walked by today whistling cheerily and wished him a Merry Christmas on his way home_._

_Home._

It is a strange word, and Sirius can no longer bring to mind a particular place that seems to fit it. Not Grimmauld Place, no, no. Not Hogwarts, not anymore, not when every memory of his dormitory is filled with the smiling faces of the boys that war swallowed whole. And not the dingy flat he shared with Remus for a few short weeks, before suspicion crept under their skins and doubt blossomed in their chests.

Sirius paces, walking up and down his cell. He is restless. His limbs are strangely alive, jittery and unsteady and Sirius thinks that he does not need a home. He just needs _out. _Merlin, he wishes he could run.

But he can't.

All he can do is take the six strides it takes to cross his cell and turn swiftly on his heel, muttering incessantly and thinking, thinking, just _thinking_.

He thinks it is Harry's seventh Christmas. Maybe his eighth. He is unsure.

He wonders if Remus visits. James and Lily would like that, Sirius thinks.

He wonders if Harry is happy.

He wonders if _Remus_ is happy.

He wonders what _happiness _feels like, and whether or not Remus can remember how he tastes. He wonders if Remus would want to, if Remus would kiss him again if he saw him, if Remus drowns the memories of Sirius' touch in alcohol and the touches strange men and women.

He wonders if the moon ever really was bright enough to blind him, if Peter thought he could save himself, if Lily died with her back to Voldemort or if she stared him in the eyes, if colour is a thing that lives beyond the walls of Azkaban.

He tries to remember what red looks like.

Red. Gryffindor red, Lily's hair red, fresh-scars-on-Remus'-skin red.

Christmas red.

It must be well past midnight by now. It is silent and the stars that Sirius can see through that high window are twinkling and shining like promises that maybe soon, maybe he will get out of here.

He remembers a quote, something that may have been shoved down his throat by his mother or whispered into his ear by a lover once long ago. He does not know anymore.

_Blessed are they that mourn: for they shall be comforted._

Yes, Sirius will get out of here.

One way or another.

"Merry Christmas," he murmurs, and his voice is low and rusty, disuse tarnishing his syllables and sitting like dust on his underused lips.

He shifts to Padfoot and curls up on the floor.

Maybe tonight he will dream of Christmas with Remus and mistletoe kisses and the sweet release of death.

(He doesn't; he dreams that he is a star and he's shining on Remus' face and Remus is smiling. But Sirius is a falling star, and he falls and falls and Remus stops smiling and starts running and Sirius dies in the night sky and everything fades to black except, except-

Except for the shine of Remus' eyes.

_Blessed are they that mourn: for they shall be comforted._

He wakes up feeling sick.)


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N:** Laptop is back up and running...for now. Enjoy!

* * *

_7. brown_

**(Would you listen)**

**for this dark alley love song?**

**For the winter we heated our home**

**from the steam off our own bodies?**

**I wrote you too many poems in a language **

**I did not yet know how to speak...**

* * *

Fudge gives him a newspaper.

It happens quickly.

The photos are sepia toned, but Sirius spots him instantly.

He's _alive_, that little brown _rat_ with the missing toe and suddenly Sirius is so angry he's almost foaming at the mouth, almost screaming to the skies, but all he does is look the Minister in the eye and whisper, "_He's at Hogwarts_."

"Pardon, Mr Black?" Fudge asks, obviously uneasy.

"Hogwarts," Sirius hisses, and that is all he can think.

_Hogwarts Hogwarts he's at Hogwarts he's there Hogwarts Hogwarts he's at Hogwarts  
_  
The nights bleed into days as Sirius sits alone in his cell, stock still, his legs bent and his back straight. He holds that newspaper, crumpled and ripped at the edges, and he mutters to himself over and over and over and how fucking _dare_Peter think he could ever get away with this?

Sirius digs his fingernails into his thighs, his mutterings growing frantic and desperate, and he knows that he cannot sit here and die when he can find a way to _justify _everything that has happened.

James is dead. Lily is dead. Harry is an orphan, a lost little boy with a shaky future and just a wisp of hope that fades, day by day. And Remus, _oh_ _Remus_. Sirius doesn't know what has become of Remus. He is a teacher. But is he a broken man? Is he whole? Does he live, does he laugh, does he _love_?

He swallows thickly, his fingers leaving their sweaty prints on the newspaper.

_He will get out of here.  
_  
His breath is ripping through his lungs, coming sharp and painfully, stabbing at his insides.

_He will find him.  
_  
The vision of Peter, small and squat and watery eyed, screaming in agony, howling in pain at the end of Sirius' wand, makes him chuckle. The sound is dark and wrong and Sirius hates it, even more so when he realises he doesn't have a wand.

_He will _kill_ him.  
_  
The image of Padfoot tearing into Wormtail's tiny body viscously dances before his eyes, blood on his nails and flesh between his teeth, ripping and shredding and utterly decimating the traitor that is Peter Pettigrew.

_And then maybe...everything will be okay._

(In the back of his mind, Sirius knows that Peter is not the only Marauder spending his days at Hogwarts, but he does not let himself dream. Not at all.)

_Okay._

He realises, with a jolt, that he is finally going mad.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N:** Almost near the end... I'm sorry if these seem a little repetitive. There's only so much I can do with a man slowly going mad in a tiny prison cell for murders he didn't commit while the whole world hates him and his lover loses all faith in him. I mean, come _on. _That's not interesting at all.

My way of saying _SORRY THAT I CAN'T WRITE ANYTHING BUT SIRIUS BEING SAD AND MISSING HIS MOONY, OKAY? SORRY._

(Random sidenote: I totally have the last chapter finished. I think that one's my favourite. I'm such a tease.)

* * *

_8. bone_

**Tonight, I begged another stage light**

**to become that back alley street lamp that we danced beneath**

**the night your warm mouth fell on my timid cheek**

**as I sang maybe I need you...**

**Off key,**

**but in tune...  
**

* * *

He has not seen his own face in so long, and yet he knows that his features have become waxy and sunken. He knows that his skin shines with that sheen of a man long fallen into madness and that his face is sharper and narrower than before.

Sirius knows this because he can now count his ribs, jutting out like broken branches against the taut white expanse of his skin. He can see his own wrists grow thinner, narrower, so frail, and they look as if they would snap at any moment.

And, when he is Padfoot, he knows that he can almost make it, _almost_, just _there_, if he _pushes_.

But it will take a few more weeks before Sirius, Padfoot or no, can force himself through the bars.

He traces the rough iron of the bars lovingly, mockingly, and for the briefest second, he is not in Azkaban.

No.

He is holding his broom, pointed towards the sky, daring his Moony to fly through the clouds.

"Do it, Moony," his voice echoes, and there is Remus, standing straight and proper, his eyes agleam and his hair blowing in the wind. His arms are crossed stubbornly, his mouth in a frown that Sirius knows he doesn't mean.

"Sirius..." he warns, but Sirius is not listening.

He is staring.

He is looking right into Remus' amber eyes - _no, no, your eyes are closed_ - and he is memorising the shine of his iris, the curve of his shoulder, the way his arms grasp each other in the cold. He laughs, goes to throw his broom towards Moony - _ow, you berk, he thinks he hears, but he doesn't, not really _- but the broom doesn't move, and the rough edges of it scrape his palm.

He opens his eyes.

The iron bars bear down on him, glaring at him, laughing cruelly like twisted metal teeth.

"Moony," he chokes, but he knows Moony is long gone.

Three weeks, he thinks.

Three weeks and fuck these bars.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N:** Had a little read of PoA the other day and realised I'd made some mistakes regarding canon. Apparently, Sirius had no bars on his cell in Azkaban and so subsequently didn't starve himself to slip through them. I could've sworn it though. Where the hell do I get this crap? So, um, sorry about that.

Also, dialogue taken straight from PoA and is obviously not mine. (Because if it was, Remus and Sirius would have stabbed Peter in the head and run away to make sweet love somewhere deep within in the castle.)

* * *

_9. blood_

**Maybe I need you the way that big moon needs that open sea,**  
**maybe I didn't even know I was here 'til I saw you holding me.**  
**Give me one room to come home to,**  
**Give me the palm of your hand;**  
**Every strand of my hair is a kite string**  
**and I have been blue in the face with your sky...**

* * *

The shack is dustier than he remembers, and he has the urge to fall to the floor and make angels in the thick coat of dust that sings _fifteen years_ at his aching bones. Fifteen years of iron bars and rasping breaths that suck his happiness out through his teeth; fifteen years of nothing.

The Weasley boy moans softly in the corner. His cries are desperate and his blood still lingers on Sirius' tongue, but he knows he has him there, _Pettigrew_, the _rat._ He would kill him, he would kill him rightnowthisminute –

But Harry is coming. Harry, Harry, _thirteen_ year old Harry, with James' hair and Lily's eyes and his very own recklessness; Harry is coming.

And then suddenly he is here, and he is violent and loud and Sirius says, "_I thought you'd come and help your friend. Your father would have done the same for me,"_ but Harry screams, "_HE KILLED MY MUM AND DAD_," at his friends and Sirius is numb.

This is wrong, all wrong, but he knew it would be, didn't he? Everything is wrong, everything has _been_ wrong for so long because of _him. _That's why Sirius is _here._

Harry is livid – so very like his father – and there is a struggle, his wand is in Sirius' face and Sirius can't think of the words to tell him he is wrong because, really, he's _not._ It _is_ Sirius' fault but if he could explain, if he could only tell Harry -

And then fucking _Remus_ is there and Sirius forgets how to think at all.

Remus snatches wands from small hands attached to confused teenagers, and walks to Sirius' side, and Sirius can feel his fingers shaking, his heart pounding in chest, and knows he has never felt this lost before.

"_Where is he, Sirius?"_

Sirius points at the rat in the Weasley boy's lap and Remus understands instantly.

Remus always does.

And when he pulls Sirius from the floor and wraps him up in his arms like a _welcome back_ and a _forgive me_ all in one, Sirius knows that maybe not everything is as hopeless as it was.

(He tries to ignore how much Remus smells like home.)


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: **Ladies and gentlemen, we are done. Thank you, dear readers, for, um, reading... And thank you Izzie for inspiring me so.

This is the first collection that I can ever mark as _Complete,_ did you know that? And it's all for you, Iz.

I hope you've enjoyed reading it as much as I have writing it.

* * *

_10. bossy_

**My knees are bent**  
**like the corner of a page;**  
**I am saving your place.**

* * *

The space between them tingles with the echo of silence and discomfort.

"Sirius, please don't leave your _fucking _clothes on the floor," Remus barks, and the tension dies. It's like twelve years have melted away and Sirius laughs. The sound is desperate to his ears.

Remus watches him, a small smile on his lips.

"Welcome home, Padfoot," he whispers, and Sirius' heart soars.

"I've missed you," Sirius says, and his eyes are stinging embarrassingly, his face is flushed. His voice is a hollow growl that echoes in the distance between them.

He wants to say _I love you_ but it's been far, far too long. So instead he just takes Remus by the hand and runs his fingertips along the veins that stick out there. These hands are older than he remembers.

"Perhaps you have not changed as much as I, Sirius," Remus says quietly, "But there are things that you do not know about me anymore. I am not the boy you left. I am not a boy, Padfoot. I am an old man. But you... I wonder if you have changed at all."

He pulls his hand from Sirius grasp and drops his gaze to the floor, and Sirius wants to laugh at how his cheeks are red and flushed.

"Remus," Sirius pleads, desperate for Remus to look at him, "I have changed. I have changed so very much that I'm afraid I'm not even me anymore and then how can - how-," he stutters, feeling young and clumsy. "How can you love me?" he finishes.

"How indeed..." Remus murmurs, and shakes his head slowly. "I don't know anymore, Sirius. Can I? We are different people to the Padfoot and Moony that we used to be."

"Are we though, Moony?" Sirius asks, ignoring how Remus flinches at his old nickname. "You are still as bossy, still as kind, still as bloody sensible as my Moony. And I am still as bitter, still as lost, still as _fucked up_as when you first met me. Perhaps even more so."

"But?" Remus prompts.

"But I am stronger. I spent too many nights sitting in that cell to be anything but strong," Sirius says, and the note of begging in his voice does not go unnoticed by either man. Sirius' voice drops. "I'll kill him, Moony. I'll kill him."

"Sirius," Remus sighs. "Now is not the time. Just, please, tell me what we should do. I'm too tired to think."

He rests his weary head his hands. Sirius watches how his forehead creases, how is eyelids are lined, how very _old _his Moony has become.

"We should be in love," Sirius says simply. Remus' head snaps up at how honest, how scared, how very _young _Sirius sounds.

He looks at Sirius for a moment that stretches into years - _twelve long, long years_- and Sirius can see the debate alive in his eyes. Remus breathes slowly and deliberately, but he reaches back out for Sirius' hand.

"We should be," Remus says finally. His fingers are shaking.

Sirius exhales loudly, a breath he didn't even know he was holding. He has waited twelve long years for this. He pulls Remus close. When their lips meet, Sirius' chest is warm and light, his skin is on fire, his lips burning against Remus'.

"I've missed you," Sirius whispers again, because he needs to.

"Stay," Remus croaks, his voice scratchy and desperate. "Please. Don't leave again."

And then he is wrapped around Sirius again and they are alive, they are lovers, they are not-so-young but they are _happy_, even if just for a moment.

_I will_, Sirius thinks, _I'll stay_.

He does not say it out loud, because he is certain that, at that moment, Remus knows.

Remus always knows.


End file.
